


Five Winters

by theadventuresof



Category: Naruto
Genre: Drabbles, Gen, who did madara kill to get the mangekyou? the answer may (or may not) surprise you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-20
Updated: 2017-11-20
Packaged: 2019-02-04 15:21:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12773847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theadventuresof/pseuds/theadventuresof
Summary: Madara and Izuna grow up.





	Five Winters

“Madara?”

Izuna leans over his sleeping brother. He wants to cry; he wants to let his brother sleep, but he’s shaking like a leaf and his eyes are aching madly in his skull. The newborn sharingan hurts and Izuna is seven years old and he can’t stand it. He can’t _stand_ it.

Izuna’s lip trembles and the first tears fall. Madara groans and stirs. “Izuna?” he croaks. “What is it—are you sick, do you have a fever?”

Izuna whimpers. He puts his hand over his mouth. Madara sits up in the darkness and holds the back of his hand to Izuna's forehead, frowning. “Here,” he says, fumbling behind him for his flask. “Water.”

Izuna drinks for a long time. Water runs down his chin. His eyes are still glowing red. Madara wraps his blanket around Izuna’s shoulders and pulls him into his lap.

“Madara?” Izuna says after a while. He sniffles. An owl calls outside, somewhere in the otherwise silent forest.

“Yes?”

“Why don’t you have the sharingan yet?” Izuna says. “Even though everyone says you’re really strong?”

Madara doesn’t answer for a long time. “I don’t know,” he says at last. “I guess I just need to wait for the right moment.”

Izuna gives an almighty sniff and wipes his nose with the corner of Madara’s blanket. Madara laughs quietly. “Gross,” he says, and pulls the blanket up over both of them again. “Can you sleep?”

Izuna nods invisibly, and realizes Madara hasn’t heard him and is still waiting for a response. “Yes,” he says.

“Good,” Madara sighs, “Good night, Izuna,” and Izuna curls up beside him and closes his swollen eyes and everything is all right, for a while.

* * *

It is the morning after a heavy snowfall and Madara ducks into Izuna’s tent with snow in his hair and his leather harness clipped to his belt. “Come on,” Madara says, dislodging a piece of snow from the canvas as he draws his head back from the tent flap. The sky is a dazzling gray and Izuna’s hands are coated in charcoal. He knows it must be smudged on his forehead as well. He would bring the paper, too, but it’s just so _cold._ He’s glad for the excuse to get away from the compound for a while, though.

They get halfway up the mountain and decide the snow is too thick to continue any higher. Izuna knows of a little pasture tucked into the mountainside, though, and they walk east for a while to try and find it, following the faint white blur of the sun.

Madara has brought his goshawk today, and she rests on his gloved hand, turning her head from side to side with her red beady eyes flashing as if she is exasperated with the cold and the snow. Izuna blows on his hands, rubs them together. He is wearing Madara’s well-worn hand-me-down robes, which originally belonged to Tajima, which probably belonged to someone else before that.

Madara gives the command and they watch her dive, silent as a shadow, to the ground. She is a dark blur thrashing in the undergrowth, her powerful wings beating against the snow.

“There,” Madara says softly.

She draws her wings around the rabbit, shields its cooling body. There are perfect wing prints in the snow as Madara coaxes her onto his hand again, lifts her up. “Good girl,” he is saying, a terrible hunger in his eyes. “Good girl.”

When they arrive back at the compound, Tajima has left again and Hikaku is watering down the soup in the common room. Izuna warms his hands over the pot as Madara skins the rabbit.

“This arrived for you,” Hikaku says, sliding a canvas-wrapped package down the counter. Madara picks it up and holds it in one hand, apparently judging its weight. His eyes widen. He frowns, and pockets the parcel without a word.

“What was he thinking, sending it directly to the compound, anyone could have opened it, anyone could have seen,” Madara is muttering to himself as he tramps through knee-deep snow from the common room to his quarters, casting a glance behind him to make sure Tajima is not back yet. Izuna sees the whole thing. He does not see Madara close the door and curl up under his blankets and unwrap a small green bottle of medicine— _this is the last winter I’ll send any, don’t worry, and I hope you are well and that the clan is well, and please don’t feel like you have to respond but I think of you a lot,_ reads the inscription, and Madara puts his head in his hands and buries his face in the canvas wrappings and takes a very, very long breath.

* * *

_Protect your clan, Madara._

Tajima’s twisted corpse lies at his feet, fingernails scratching into the snow, teeth colliding with ice. Madara laughs raggedly and then drops to his knees and vomits because his vision is blurring and his head is shockingly, painfully hot. There is a buzz of boiling chakra in his eye sockets and he can _feel_ something quickening, pulsing, as if his eyes are turning to molten liquid. Something in his brain gives a jolt and now everything is twisting and spinning and his line of sight gives an almighty lurch and he curls up in the snow and waits for it to pass. He’s crying—or his eyes are crying without his permission—and from behind him, Izuna gives a dry sob.

When he straightens up again and turns around, everything looks different—sharper. He blinks. Tears are sliding freely down his cheeks. Tajima Uchiha is dead.

He crawls towards his brother, fighting the urge to vomit again. “Are you all right?” he rasps, and slowly, like the tolling of a bell, Izuna nods.

* * *

“Good _morning!”_ Izuna says, nearly bounding into the meeting room with his robes fastened under his ear and a persistent air of—of— _debauchery_ about him _._ Madara squints at his brother’s exposed neck.

“Are those—”

Izuna glances nonchalantly down at the trail of dark bruises disappearing under his collar. He gives a noncommittal shrug. “What? Oh. Yes.”

“Who are you seeing now?” Madara says. He glowers into his coffee. “What do all these people see in you? Where do you find the _time?”_

Izuna swiftly gathers his shining hair into its usual knot at the nape of his neck. “I _make_ the time,” he says. “And I have my stunning looks going for me, to begin with.”

Madara snorts. “So modest. I bet they all love that about you.”

Izuna smirks, gestures to his markedly bruised front. “Obviously.”

Madara straightens up and crosses his arms over his chest, assuming the no-nonsense stance of the clan head with astonishing ease. “Izuna, I am proud of you and I’m glad you’re happy,” he says, “but just remember that no matter how much action you get, you will always be my insufferable little brother and I have enough material to easily embarrass you in front of your various partners for the next seven consecutive years, at least.”

“Oh, likewise,” Izuna says, smiling rather deviously as he pours his coffee. “If you ever get any action, that is.”

* * *

 

“Here,” Madara says, and hands Izuna the partially-unfurled scroll.

“It’s from the Sora-ku sentries,” Izuna says, turning it over in his hands.

“I can tell that much,” Madara snaps. “Tell me what it says.”

“An invoice,” Izuna says, frowning as he inspects the scroll’s contents. “They want a share of the profits from last week’s battle. With—oh, wow—with interest.”

Madara scoffs. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Tell them to solicit the Senju instead,” he says, “I know for a fact they’re using the same weapons we are.”

“Oh? Did you finally go and cut a deal with the Senju? I know you and that Mokuton user have had that _thing_ going on since you were kids—”

“Shut up,” Madara says. “I know because the shuriken I pulled out of my calf last week had the same insignia as the ones we usually use—”

Izuna’s eyebrows shoot up past his bangs. He has never noticed insignias on any of the weapons the clan uses. “You could see that?”

“It was engraved,” Madara glowers, now massaging his temples, “and I don’t want to talk about my eyesight, now can we please move on to the next piece of correspondence so we can be done and I can go to bed?”

* * *

_This really is the last winter, I promise, I just thought you might appreciate it—not that I don’t have complete faith in your ability to lead the clan on your own, but I hope it is of some comfort to you to know that there are other people besides your own clan who believe in you, even if it’s from afar and strange like this. And I hope it ends up being a practical gift as well. I just wish I could give more._

_Take care of your leg._

Izuna chews on his lip for a good minute and a half before he carefully places the letter back under Madara’s nightstand. He feels vaguely sick. He wishes he hadn’t read it. Although, given the size of the handwriting, maybe Madara hasn’t read it either.

**Author's Note:**

> hi i love these boys


End file.
